


The Harvest

by RoverMaelstrom



Category: Dystopia Rising (Live-Action Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-29 17:57:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12090348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoverMaelstrom/pseuds/RoverMaelstrom
Summary: A short look at the start of Thrill Kill season.





	The Harvest

It's that time of year again. I grin in anticipation, my face splitting with the broad smile. As the day ends, I watch the sun eagerly, waiting for it to dip below the treeline. Finally, finally it happens. My tools are stored in the shed, my children kissed and put to bed, and I start off into the fields.

My shovel leans jauntily against my shoulder and my steps are light as I pace past the earth I work each day. I pass my neighbors, returning from their own toils, but my heart is already fixed upon the coming night and I move past without a word.

At the furthest edge of the last field stands a gnarled, twisted oak. It's branches curve and coil skyward, defying the odds and continuing to grow despite it's immense age. I circle it, stopping at the knot at the far side and pacing ten steps away, stopping at an unassuming spot in the ground. My shovel comes off my shoulder. I dig, and dig, and dig, and dig.

The metal of my tool finally strikes home on something other than dirt. Carefully, I pull the wrought iron bar free from the dirt, almost mesmerized by the clumps of soil falling away. Soon, the twisted, hooked piece of iron is free and laying on the ground at my side. I pause for a moment, admiring it, then reach into the hole once more and feel for the rough burlap I know is there. My hand closes in it and upwards I pull, again almost mesmerized by the soil that falls away. I feel as though the earth that I toil for each day is now birthing me anew.

My hands are calm as I untie the knots holding the sack closed, but my heart is racing. I feel my brain shifting, becoming other. No longer Marta, no longer the sweet faced remnant farmer, no longer anything but the embodiment of the harvest.

Full dark now. Mask on, iron out. Skulking in shadows, movements furtive. Time. It is time. The others there, now. Brothers in harvest.

Moving surely, down the road, into town. Running, quick quick, unexpected. Beating, blood, rush of lust. Grab and run. Fix quick quick - can't bleed too much, not yet. Binds, hands and feet, tight tight, cruel. Glinty eyes, quick cruel breath. Far enough, far enough, drop them, cut them, bleed them. Screams rise, blood quickens, lust overwhelms. Animal mating, screams mingled with screams, pleasure and pain, lust conquers and torture rules.

The harvest is only just begun. The night is still long and there are many more to bring to her.


End file.
